


This is my loss of love, my loss of limb

by magpie_03



Series: Down the mountain range of my left-side brain [9]
Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Angst, Chronic Illness, Depression, Epilepsy, Implied Relationships, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Psychological Trauma, Psychosis, Sad Josh, Suicide Attempt, joshler - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-06-22 20:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15590421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpie_03/pseuds/magpie_03
Summary: This story is a sequel to "Nothing good comes from being gone," this time from Josh's perspective feat. a few new scenes I wrote into the story.Trigger warnings for suicide - please read with caution.





	This is my loss of love, my loss of limb

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a sequel to "Nothing good comes from being gone," this time from Josh's perspective feat. a few new scenes I wrote into the story. 
> 
> Trigger warnings for suicide - please read with caution.

Ever since Tyler and Josh got together Tyler's epilepsy has been the third wheel in their relationship. Not a jealous or a stalking ex, no - just a chronic, neurological and, in Tyler's case, incurable disorder that takes over your entire life. It takes a lot to make a relationship work under these circumstances. More than just commitment, staying together when your partner is sick takes an almost absurd amount of trust. It is a form of love that is founded on the belief in the absurdity of things. Playing video games on the ICU. Ordering pizza right before a sleep deprivation EEG. Watching the Harry Potter movies at night while Tyler waits for his brain to break down. Looking together at the sunset after a long, long night. Tyler's epilepsy took a toll on their lives but it didn't take away the joy of the little things. Giggling as Josh failed halfway through Happy Wheels. Munching pizza on a hospital bed because they craved normality just as much as crusted cheese. Snuggling during Harry Potter and debating whether the movies are just movies or part of everybody's childhood. Standing on a hospital balcony at 6AM just to be able to breathe again.

Everyime Josh looks at Tyler he feels something impossible loosen inside himself.

For a little while things became easier. Every morning and evening Tyler sat in front a mountain of medications. The puke pills piled up. Tyler's neurologist doubled the dosage and they had to split the tablets in half because Tyler had difficulty swallowing them. "I won't give up," Tyler promised Josh and these words echo in Josh's head as he watches Tyler pick up each pill and swallow them one by one, coughing, clearing his throat. Making a face when he accidentally crushes one with his teeth.

Tyler doesn't complain. He just swallows it all.

And for the first time in months Josh watches the seizures disappear and his boyfriend come back. They move the epilepsy to the far back of their life like an old and ugly piece of furniture you always wanted to throw out and when you do, you discover that there's space you haven't used at all.

They go to the swimming pool together, Josh, Tyler, and Brendon. Josh kept in touch with Brendon, their friendship no longer confined to a 10x10 room and a video EEG that records every word they speak, every movement they make. Josh knows swimming is a huge safety issue with people who have epilepsy - drowning during a seizure is a common cause of death - and he tries to talk to Tyler about it. "Did you know there are swim vests for people with epilepsy?", he asks as they pack up their things. He desperately tries to sound casual and not like someone who already bought a vest and buried it deep inside their closet because he knows Tyler would hate the thing, the bright orange color that basically screamed EPILEPTIC.

Tyler shoots him a look. "I'm not wearing a _swim vest_ ," he mumbles, tossing his swimming trunks into his bag, next to a book, a spare set of meds, and his sunglasses. "I can swim. We had plenty of holidays at the beach and my dad taught me how to swim in the ocean when I was five."

His earliest memory of feeling healthy.

The first thing Tyler learned was how to dive unter waves and he longed for the moment right after you go down. You grab the sand, flop over and watch the wave go over you. You feel infinite. You _are_ infinite. The body of the ocean and your body become one. Wave upon wave upon wave. You can hold your breath forever down here. Rising and falling. Rising and rising.

"But.."

There it is, their code word. He comes right back up, the reality of _back then_ and _right now_ , of having one body and then another hitting him hard. He hasn't been diving in years. It long stopped being real. Now it's just a memory. The ocean exists on paper, on postcards his grandparents send him every summer. _Dear Tyler, how are you? The waves are fantastic. You would love it down here. Love, grandma and grandpa._ And you're supposed to put that on a bare white wall.

"What if..."

Even with his epilepsy being semi-controlled Tyler and Josh tiptoe around it. Their conversations are littered with code words for things they couldn't speak out loud for fear it all comes crashing down. Epilepsy makes you do weird things and the superstition that comes with the good times is the strangest of them all. Every word, every look has meaning. You twist and turn your body, you skip stairs and jump through hoops just so you won't step on the cracks in the sidewalk. The lines that divide it all.

Another look from Tyler.

"Josh. Don't worry. I'll stay in the shallow end."

Josh nuzzles Tyler's neck. "I'm just worried..."

Tyler turns around puts his finger on his lips. "I know."

...

They keep an eye on Tyler's seizure calendar. It's their personal oracle, one just as powerful as the weather forecast. Depending on the number your day is either ruined or you're bouncing off the walls.

It's August and just as the temperatures rise the seizures decline. 2, 1, 0. Numbers they haven't seen in a long time. A countdown into a life they didn't know still existed. Growing basil on the windowsill. Long, lazy breakfasts in bed. Buttermilk pancakes. Orange juice.

Tyler's lips on Josh's collarbone. His hands in Josh's hair.

They spend a day at the public park, fooling around with a basketball, laughing until their stomachs hurt. Tyler doesn't even pretend, he just takes the ball and shoots one basket after another after another after another. It looks effortless, the way his body, his bones move through the air. The lean muscles in his arms and legs clench and relax. Clench and relax.

There's an entire life that's been sleeping inside his marrow.

The afternoon blends into the evening, the sky changes its sheets. They settle on the grass. Tyler rests his head on Josh's shoulder.

"Josh?"

"Yeah?"

Tyler smiles. "Nothing."

That night Tyler falls asleep as gently as a mouse curled up into a ball.

...

Until that one night comes. Josh will never understand why breakdowns always happen at night, at a time when other people get to sleep peacefully, buried under blankets, blissfully oblivious of the muffled crying and begging and screaming behind their closed bedroom door.

Josh sometimes imagines Tyler's epilepsy like a distant, dark thing that needs the darkness to spread its wings and bring their entire world down.

The next morning he drives Tyler to the GP. After a quick discussion ("Are you sure....? What if...?" - "I'm fine, Josh. I just need a bit of a tune up") Josh heads straight to work. By the time he gets to the music store he has three missed calls from the neurology ward at the local hospital. Josh parks his car at the side of the road, rests his forehead against the steering wheel, and cries.

He picks Tyler up after a few hours of observation are over. He's still on a first-name basis with the nurses. They share looks like a family does. _Look who's back again. Tyler and Josh._

During ther drive back home Josh watches their life disappear in the rearview mirror. He wants to scream at every car he encounters, wipe the smile off other people's faces. He doesn't understand why their life doesn't get to be this. Why they don't get to live a carefree life, a life that's normal to the point where your only worry is the dinner you're going to cook that evening or the movie you're going to watch. They drive in silence, the only noises visible is the constant _woosh woosh woosh_ from the traffic, like robotic waves breaking on a beach faraway. Rising, falling. Falling and falling.

...

_The Atlantic was born today and I'll tell you how_

_The clouds above opened up and let it out..._

They watch a lot of TV. Documentaries, movies, TV shows. Anything that takes the mind off. Within the first five minutes Tyler's eyes start to dart everwhere. Josh knows this is a well-known side effect of the medication Tyler is on - but it's also a telltale sign that his epilepsy is getting worse again because the first thing that goes downhill is your ability to stay focus and on track, mentally, until you're both over-and underwhelmed. Underwhelmed by the emptiness inside you, the boredom. Nothing holds your attention, it's all just emptiness rattling against your bones. Overwhelmed because the second you try to focus on something, anything, it becomes too much, an impossible swirl of color and sound.

They're stuck in limbo, stumbling from crack to crack.

Josh turns the TV on mute. Neither of them pay attention to the program. Tyler is already half asleep, his body a knot of trembling and jerking limbs. The late evening is a dangerous time. Dozing off after a long exhausting day triggers his seizures so they need to play it safe and wait until the first sleep phase is over, until Tyler is fast asleep. Josh rolls over and puts his arms around Tyler's body. Tyler is still there and yet so far away. If only he could fix what goes wrong in Tyler's brain, whatever it is the neurologists can identify so clearly and yet they can't repair it. Whatever it is that brings the constant heaviness on Josh's chest, the sting in his eyes.

_I'm not enough to make him better_

The TV spits its colors into the dark room.

...

The basil dies. Everything shrinks and shrivels. The ground underneath their feet has opened up. The cracks run deep now, they run through the entire earth.

...

They still manage to go to the epilepsy local support group. They are the only members under 30 (and the only couple too) but Tyler's brain qualified them as members straight away, epilepsy doesn't discriminate. They meet up in a chapel of all places. At least it's not a hospital.

They cry together, they laugh together. They celebrate each other's successes. Being seizure-free for a year for one member, going a week without a seizure for another. Having four instead of seven seizures for Tyler.

They don't have to explain what it means to hear the words "he's had a seizure again."

They don't have to explain the tears.

During the meeting Josh takes notes, the expression on his face so serious it would have made Tyler laugh (back when he still felt like laughing). Josh is both overwhelmed and reassured by the constant influx of new information. There's always something they haven't tried yet, new medications, new treatments, new developments, new technology. There's still hope.

They don't have to explain what that means.

...

They still go out because isolating yourself isn't what you're supposed to do. (Actually, being ill isn't what you're supposed to do but you don't have much of a choice). _You need to get a life of your own_ , Tyler's neurologist keeps telling them. _You need to get a life._

Brendon has been ranting to them about a local band for some time. It's their last show and Brendon got hold of the last three tickets. They make it through the opening band, the lights dim, and the band comes on. Josh is instantly mesmerized by the energy of the crowd, the music, the lights. The concert doesn't feel real, it feels like religious experience, one that wrenches his soul from his body, gives it a good shake, and puts it back in.

He feels like laughing again as he jumps around with Brendon, singing along loudly, in tune, out of tune, he doesn't care what anybody thinks.

When he turns around Tyler makes his way to the bathroom. For a split second he wants to run after him but knows better. Tyler detests the attention he gets when other people "make a scene" and told him explicitly not to follow him at the venue. "I don't need a ... a.... babysitter, Josh," he snapped, his difficulty finding words making him even angrier about the fact that Josh just tried to figure out whether or not the show will have flickering lights. Brendon's eyes grow wide, he's never seen Tyler this angry. Josh swallows and shrugs his shoulders. This isn't Tyler, it's the seizures, it's the seizures, it's always the seizures, the goddamn seizures. And yet he keeps looking, scanning the faces of the people who enter the bathroom and leave. No one seems scared, disturbed or shocked like people who have never seen a seizure usually are. No one calls an ambulance, no one screams, no one cries.

This isn't Tyler, isn't Tyler, isn't Tyler.

The show goes on and on. He was lost in the moment a second ago and now it's just a drag. He lets his body be carried away by the movement of the crowd but the music doesn't move him any longer. Without deciding or even registering he starts to count the minutes, hoping that with each passing song Tyler will return, laughing and teasing Josh for being so worried. "Tyler probably just needs to pee!" Brendon yells into his ear right before the encore. 

When the show is over Tyler finally returns, his face ashen.

...

Second try.

They decide to go for a quick coffee at a new secret café that opened up just around the corner. Well, it was Josh who found the café online and went forward with the idea. It takes a lot of work to convince Tyler. "Everybody will look at me, they'll all think I'm weird," Tyler mumbles, hands hidden deep inside his hoodie. "I don't want to get ouside. I don't need... outside. I'm safer here."

Josh takes his hand. "No one is going to look at you, Ty. And if they do I'll beat them up, I promise."

Tyer tries to smile in response and fails.

In the end they decide to go. Just one coffee, one quick coffee. If Tyler's epilepsy taught them one thing it's that there's a lot that can wrong during one cup of coffee. But the weather forecast looked promising this morning. Sunshine, a little breeze, and no seizures in sight.

People do a double-take when they see Tyler on the street.

"Tyler, look at you! You look great! The picture of health!"

It's still summer, still August, and a tan doesn't wear off as quickly as seizure freedom.

Judging by the mass of people that are waiting both out- and inside the "secret café" isn't so secret now but they still manage to get a table right in the middle.

Things go well. The coffee is great (and cheap), the music in the background is actually bearable and not as horrid as the stuff most café blare, the sun comes out and their table just happens to be in the sunny spot. It's moments like this, small and precious when ... Tyler becomes still, motionless. His head turns to the right, and slowly, his entire body follows, his arms and legs stiff and bent. This new seizure pattern has been going on for some time now. Josh groans and walks over to Tyler. One second they were just a couple among many, enjoying coffee and sunshine and now it's seizure survival mode right on: focus on the situation, this is not the time to cry.

He can see that Tyler hasn't lost consciousness but he doesn't seem to be aware of his surroundings. His eyes have that empty "the lights are on but nobody is home" look Tyler gets during complex-partial seizures. His right arm moves back and forth, something Josh never seen before. What on earth is _this?_   An automatism? Myoclonic jerk? A clonic seizure? Josh doesn't know the name of the seizure or if it even can be classified properly and right now he can't afford to worry about it.

Josh tries to be as discreet, subtle, and fast as possible. With trained, quick movements he clears their table of everything that looks breakable. Coffee cups, milk can, sugar pot, phones, keys and sunglasses. He makes a mental note of Tyler's symptoms and starts to count.

1-2-3-4-5

Tyler's eyes are empty and wide, empty and full, full of fear and far away. 

Josh knows it's all physiological, all biological, all neurological, a shortcut in an organ that doesn't feel any pain, but right in this moment he swears he can see a part of Tyler's soul leaving.

6-7-8-9-10

He stabilizes Tyler's neck with one hand and rubs Tyler's chest with the other, telling him he's okay, it's all going to be okay. At least Tyler didn't fall out of his chair. There are no bruises, no broken bones, no concussion. Everything's fine except it's not.

In moments like this, seeing the sun shine on a bright blue sky feels like the entire world is gloating.

11-12-13-14-15

And there's always someone who calls an ambulance. Always.

"No we're good, thanks .. no, we don't need anything... no ambulance please."

He shoos off two waiters who come running toward their table, phone and a bucket in their hands. A bucket. They really have never seen an epileptic seizure before.

16-17-18

Tyler blinks. Josh takes a deep breath. This one was under half a minute, it's the third one this week. At least they are still in the single digits.

"Are you with me?"

Tyler nods slowly and looks around the café. The place has gone dead silent. He turns back to Josh. There's a single tear running down his cheek. Josh swallows. Focus. _Now is not the time to cry._

 ...

 _I was standing on the surface of a perforated sphere_  
_When the water filled every hole  
_

There are more and more pills. The neurologist hopes that as they make their way to the maximum dosage the seizures will decrease again and with them the increasingly violent mood swings. But it's the other way around - the drug triggers mood swings, the emotions trigger auras, the auras trigger seizures, the seizures bring the depression, and it all starts over again.

It's like you're being slowly engulved by a fire, flesh crackling, bones burning, but the flames are cold. A vision into your own, personal hell.

Josh can't forget but there's nothing to remember.

He watches Tyler zone out for hours on end, eyes glazed and unfocused. He looks like he's listening to something only he can hear. Something terrible and far away.

And it wasn't even that the epilepsy was particularly bad - they are still in the single digits – but for some reason it all affected him much more. As if the drug put a veil over Tyler's eyes, revealing a world he simply didn't want to live in.

Heaviness on your chest, sting in your eyes. Tyler's mood swings back and forth between depression, anger, and anxiety. His emotions are as unpredictable as the seizures and they are set off by smallest things. The wrong song on the radio. The sound of his neighbor coughing loudly in the hallway. The look the bus driver gave him. His mind has begun to tear itself apart and the tear spills tears everywhere.

It's difficult to hold on to anything when the memory of good times feels like a parade of skeletons that's marching past you.

Now every night Tyler performs an elaborate ritual during during which he checks every door, every window. "They are coming to get me, Josh," he whispers. He doesn't specify who "they" are or why they're coming to get him but he insists on locked doors and windows even though it's only early September and temperatues are still soaring. Josh longs for chilly night air, the smell and the feeling of summer. He longs for the summer, longs for the good time they got to experience like it's a distant memory and not something that happened three weeks ago.

He tries to reason with Tyler, reassuring him that there was no one and nothing to get him but Tyler just gets angry, yelling that he's right and Josh is wrong, Josh has to believe him, he has to. The despair in Tyler's voice, the sheer fear in his eyes makes Josh swallow. This is a whole new side of Tyler, a dark side, a twisted side. A sick side.

Farther and farther away.

In the end Josh gives in. He barely tolerates the hours and hours of locking doors and windows but he doesn't know what else to do. He gives in just to that Tyler will eventually go to bed. Josh barely sleeps. It's a hundred degrees in their bedroom and Tyler's body keeps jerking and twitching throughout the night. He's so tired it feels like God has scratched his fingernails across his mind.

Josh tries to make sense of it all, with a mind that's gasping, wheezing, stuttering, coughing. He longs to feel like he's able to breathe again. 

He stays up into the small hours, researching anticonvulsants. Tyler has been on so many drugs over years and he's always been vulnerable to psychiatric side effects. Josh learns that psychosis can be induced by the drugs, a rare but serious side effect. They never really worried about it though (and Tyler's neurologist didn't tell them) because Tyler wasn't psychotic, period (and they already had enough to worry about). And now _this._

Josh finally decides to call Tyler's neurologist. Medical confidentiality or not, their life is falling apart. After three nights with hardly any sleep his hands are so shaky he can barely type in the number. He knows he should be grateful that after hours and hours of waiting the doctor finally calls back. He probably sacrified his lunch break to listen to Josh rattling off Tyler's symptoms in under a minute.

"This sounds like a transitory psychotic episode," the neurologist cuts him off. "Does Tyler have a history of psychosis? Have you been in touch with a psychiatrist?"

Josh bites his lip. It's already difficult enough to get Tyler to take his epilepsy medication regularly and on time. No way Tyler would talk to a psychiatrist or take more pills. _He doesn't even realize that the things he's seeing aren't real_ , Josh wants to scream. _It's not just all in his head. It's everywhere and I don't know what to do_.

"No.... and no" he admits. He knows the answer he's going to get.

"Well..." the neurologist replies. Josh can feel the irritation. _Then why are you talking to me, this is a psychiatric problem, not a neurological one. Not my division._

"We could put Tyler on antipsychotics but to be honest I'd like to avoid that since the drugs lower the seizure threshold and we don't want things to get worse, right?" Josh remembers the story Brendon told them about his psychotic roommate who trashed the hospital room and ran away from the hospital, EEG electrodes still glued to his scalp. He shakes his head to the squeaking voice that's coming out of his phone. No, we don't.

"I recommend we slightly lower the dosage of Tyler's anticonvulsant to see if Tyler's mood and delusions improve. We have to be careful here so start with 50 mg in the morning and 50 in the evening to see where that will lead us. If the delusions don't improve or if Tyler gets suicidal please call me back and we'll schedule an emergency appointment, okay, John?"

"It's Josh," he mumbles as the line goes dead. "It's Josh."

...

They reduce the medication. First up, now down. Josh feels like the neurologist ran out of ideas. All of this doesn't feel like they're solving the problem. It feels like they're playing tug of war with Tyler's brain and they are on the losing side.

Completely unfazed by it all, Tyler's anxiety and delusions continue. They don't go out much. Tyler doesn't trust the stairs in the hallway (seizures), doesn't trust the bus (seizures) or the bus driver (paranoia), doesn't trust the café right near their apartment (seizures) or the barista (paranoia). Shopping for groceries is impossible. He doesn't trust the cashier in the supermarkt, doesn't trust the food in the supermarket, he's perpetually overwhelmed by the noise in the store and can't find his way back home.

The world has grown a thousand black teeth and sinks them deep into Tyler's skull.

There's an abstract painting in the hallway of their house. Josh has never thought much about it. To him it just looks like a confusing splash of color but the landlord probably thought it would be a nice feature to bring a little bit of vividness to the egg shell colored walls. One night when he returns from his closing shift at the music store he finds Tyler pressed to the bit of wall right between the painting and their apartment door. Barefoot, mumbling incoherent sentences. Eyes wide in horror.

"Josh, there are dead bodies." His voice is a whisper, the kind of whisper reserved for sharing secrets at sleepovers. The secret isn't so secret anymore. Not with the darkness dripping out of Tyler's mouth.

"Ty, it's an abstract paiting. It's just colors." Josh tries to keep his voice down like this is a normal, regular conversation. The last thing Tyler needs is to see how scared Josh was deep down. He fishes for his key and turns to Tyler. He needs to be strong for both of them.

_And what were you doing last night? Oh, the usual. Tried to convice my psychotic boyfriend that his delusions aren't real._

"There are no dead bodies, believe me. Come on inside. Your feet must hurt on the cold floor."

As if this is the word Tyler's been waiting for he goes off.

"Josh there are dead bodies THERE ARE DEAD BODIES DEAD BODIES JOSH THEY ARE COMING TO GET ME THEY ARE COMING TO GET ME"

Tyler's whisper turns into a scream. His voice echoes through the hall, hitting the walls like a trapped bird that's desperate to get out.

He's far away.

Josh closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. _It's all okay, it's going to be okay._ He opens the apartment door with one foot, throws his bagpack into the bedroom and helds his hands out to Tyler as if he's a feral animal.

"Come on. Come here."

Tyler's face crumples. Josh takes him by the hand and slowly, they make their way back to the flat, Josh's hand on the small of Tyler's back. He hopes that somewhere deep in the back of his dark, wounded mind Tyler knows what this means. A hand on his back, another rubbing his arm. _It's all okay, it's going to be okay._ A mantra Josh needs to tell Tyler as much as himself. He needs to be strong for both of them. He needs to keep going.

Josh knows they will get funny looks from the neighbors again. He's certain that someone will complain about _the psycho from downstairs_.

That night they order pizza and eat it in their bed, in the half-dark. To prove that the pizza isn't poisoned Josh peels everything off of Tyler's piece until the only thing that is left over is the dough, pale and bland. Until all that is left is _you're safe, Tyler._

...

_And thousands upon thousands made an ocean  
Making islands where no islands should go_

Like the Romans watched the birds in the sky for signs and omens, Josh tries to deciphers the last few days, trying to understand how it all lead to the inevitable: that one morning when he left for work and shouldn't have. The locked apartment door. The wo police officers in their apartment dragging a screaming and kicking Tyler out of the bedroom. Tyler's parents picking up his clothes and medications. The hug Tyler's mom gave him. Her words, the only thing that mattered in that moment. _None of this is your fault, Josh._

Was the pause between Tyler's words? The twitching of his eyelid? The silence that hung right above his head like a dark cloud?  Or was it the last mood swing, the one Josh read wrong. Tyler's mood swinged back and forth in endless repetition, in endless brutality. Back and forth, forth and back, up and down, down and up but the last mood swing sticks in Josh's mind, refusing to leave. Tyler had seemed happy again, relieved. The morning before Josh left he hugged him and kissed him on the mouth. This is it, Josh thought as he drove to work, Tyler is finally going to get better, we're going to get our life back. After weeks of barely holding on being hopeful almost feels like you're high. It's that surreal. That unimaginable. He stops at a red light and as the color changes from red to orange to green it all falls to place. Josh feels like he's about to vomit.

This wasn't a mood swing. This is how Tyler wants to remembered.

He spins the car around. He doesn't remember much but can't forget the sound of the screeching wheels on the asphalt. It's cemented into his consciousness.

He doesn't remember much. One of the police officers puts a blanket around Josh's shoulders and asks him if he can feel his feet on the floor. The question catches him completely by suprise.

_Now can you try and feel your feet on the floor._

He wonders if they asked Tyler the same question.

His feet are no good for walking now

He tries to feel them on the floor and can't

He lies on the pavement, ear against the wall

Calling Tyler's name

Tyler's mom calls him regularly to fill him in. Well, she calls and he doesn't pick up. She leaves voice messages and Josh listens to them in the middle of the night when he's hiding in his bed, Tyler's headphones tangled up on his pillow.

There's an echo right between the cracks

Josh takes it with both hands and buries it between the trees

Tyler was sectioned and transferred to the acute psychiatric ward. She doesn't use these words but it's clear what _Tyler is very ill_ and _he's going to be in the hospital for a while_ mean in this context.

_We came to pick him up today. How are you, Josh?  We found a hoodie in his bag and we believe it belongs to you. Let us know if you need it back. Tyler seems to like it - he's wearing it all the time._

_Tyler is still unwell, he needs a lot of help. We think he misses you a lot.  
_

_Josh, if you want to you can come and visit us anytime. Our door is always open for you._

Josh doesn't have the answers, neither to Tyler's mom nor to himself. He feels like something, no someone has been cut away from his life, chopped off like a limb. His life doesn't feel complete now, doesn't feel real now. His existence is copy and paste. Someone drew a chalk line around his body and expects him to lie very, very still. _Don't move. Don't breathe._

He can't move. He can't breathe. His sentences come in fragments now, in thoughts he can't speak out loud.

Today I cried so much I threw up

And when I looked into the bathroom mirror I thought I saw Tyler's face in the space between the tiles

The sharp edge that turns water into tears

At least someone else is crying now

 

I need to change the sheets but can't, they're Tyler's as much as mine, I can't make them leave too

I try to remember the sound of his laughter but all I can think about is the look on his face when the policemen dragged him out

It's betrail, as if his suicide was supposed to be a secret between us and I blew it

Like it's my fault, my guilt that keeps him in this world, my guilt

That keeps his soul from flying south

My doctor gave me pills, a blue one for breathing, a yellow one for staying alive

Remember the tender things tenderly, he said

But the pills only make me pass out

 

I keep having this dream

Are you still allowed to talk about your dreams in a house in which your boyfriend, your best friend, tried to kill himself?

I keep having this dream

Tyler stands at the window of our apartment and I'm standing outside

We don't speak

We don't touch

We're face to face

But I'm invisible


End file.
